


The Atlantic Was Born Today

by boomsherlocka



Series: Fics for Friends [4]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC
Genre: Character death (in passing), F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, no baby watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-04-28
Packaged: 2018-06-04 23:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6679048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boomsherlocka/pseuds/boomsherlocka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John drew comfort from words, Mary from physical affection, and Sherlock from reason. Order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Atlantic Was Born Today

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wakeuptothemoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakeuptothemoon/gifts).



> This fic was inspired by wakeuptothemoon, who loves OT3s.

Mary had the faintest heart murmur. Nothing to be concerned about, she probably wasn’t even aware, but Sherlock could hear it, echoing through his mind. It was there, irreversibly linked with her being—like her naturally mouse brown hair and her thinly veiled self-loathing. It was a piece of her puzzle, a puzzle that only Sherlock and Mary had seen in full. 

Sherlock shifted in closer to her, his ear pressing more firmly against her cushioned chest, and he closed his eyes. He listened to her fluttering heart. The rate of its beating was increasing, which indicated she was waking up. Sherlock could tell without opening his eyes the exact moment she opened hers.

“Are we an octopus today?” She asked, dropping a hand in his hair. “Perhaps a cuttlefish is more fitting.”

Sherlock practically purred at the gentle repetitive motion. She was more thoughtlessly tactile than John, taking Sherlock’s hand in hers or guiding his attention with touches, not words. It was something Sherlock did not know that he had wanted, even craved. His lack of resistance baffled John at first, but soon this too was accepted as part of their new normal. John hugged Sherlock in different ways, most of the time with words of praise and looks of adoration and sometimes (the best times) with absolutely nothing at all. A shared breath before a chase, a smile, a silent word weighted with shared significance. John drew comfort from words, Mary from physical affection, and Sherlock from reason. Order.

There was a reason Mary lost the baby, but it did not make their grief- their shared grief- any easier. It brought John and Mary back to Baker Street, not sure if their marriage was enough to keep them bound together.

They had no funeral for the baby. They told no one the name they had decided on, but Sherlock had seen it doodled in the margins of the diary Mary kept in her purse: Willa Sophia. Admittedly better than Sherlock.

From the moment John and Mary moved into Baker Street Sherlock felt like a morbid spectator to their sadness. Sherlock was there when Mary’s breasts leaked greyish milk. John was at work, and she cursed a string of expletives that would have made her husband quite proud as she changed clothes. Sherlock watched her from his perch on the sofa, a sharp pain in his stomach and no words. None at all. Neither of them told John, and the next day Sherlock braved Superdrug to pick up nursing pads, which he left in the treacherous cupboard under the sink that Mary had claimed as her own. She made dinner, which Sherlock made a point to eat and compliment, and she pressed a kiss to his forehead, then John’s.

John’s grief was more volatile. Especially when he allowed himself to drink, which admittedly was a rare occurrence. He blamed himself, like he always did, and would lash out. He required distraction, and often Sherlock found himself accepting cases that were beyond elementary and drawing out the cases that weren’t. In the quiet hours between them, when Mary was asleep and Sherlock and John would sit in the dark living room, each wallowing in their own brand of melancholy, John would speak about how he regretted ever surviving the war. Ever coming back to London, meeting Sherlock, Mary, marrying—all of it. Happiness had only been granted to him in order to amplify the pain, he thought. He would talk through his tears, quiet voice shaking with emotion beyond his control. At some point in the small hours of the morning the tone of his sorrows would shift. Just as carefully and completely as he would tear himself down he would piece himself back together again, until the faint but flickering joy would return to his eyes. “You know, I’m pretty fucking lucky,” he would say, his words firm. A challenge. Sherlock would smile in return, and agree with John.  He was. They both were.

\---

The first time it happened John was out of town for a conference. Both Mary and Sherlock had been texting him incessantly, and John had sent each of them the same text in a group message.

_You’ll survive. Just keep each other company. JW_

Sherlock had shrugged it off, returning to his sulking, but Mary texted back almost instantly. Sherlock couldn’t resist picking up his phone to read the message.

_He’s your boyfriend, not mine John. I’m not the best substitute. He’s all edges, difficult to cuddle with. MW_

Sherlock felt his ears heat. Surely Mary didn’t think—Sherlock began to type out a response but John’s message popped up.

_Get him drunk. He’s much better at it drunk. JW_

Sherlock heard Mary’s soft laughter from upstairs, where she was curled up in bed, no doubt trying and failing to sleep alone.

Sherlock huffed and typed out a quick reply.

_I am no one’s boyfriend. I am not going to drunkenly cuddle anyone, and could you both stop talking about me as if I am not part of this conversation? SH_

Their responses were immediate.

_Git. JW_

_But I’m lonely up here by myself. MW_

Sherlock sighed, glancing up the stairs that lead to John and Mary’s room. He wiggled his toes a bit and stood, taking a small step toward the stairs before thinking better of it, retreating instead to his room.

_Are you both seriously sulking in the flat because I’ve been gone two days? JW_

Sherlock typed out a brief affirmative, but Mary beat him to it.

_Yes. Sherlock’s practically fused to the sofa and the battery in my vibrator died. It’s hell. MW_

Sherlock grinned at his phone.

_You’ll survive. I’m back tomorrow noon. I’ll try to sneak out earlier if I have the chance. Now go to bed, both of you. JW_

Sherlock rolled his eyes but pulled his duvet over himself.

It wasn’t long until he heard soft footsteps coming down the stairs. She wasn’t bothering with stealth: they had both accepted that they couldn’t fool each other, not anymore. Sherlock held very still, curled into a ball under the duvet. His phone was cradled in the palm of his hand.

“John will be very cross. I got to cuddle with you before him, you know,” Mary said as she came closer to the bed. “He’ll never admit it, but it’s true. You have to admit the thought is appealing. He’s quite good at it.”

Sherlock let out a noncommittal hum as his phone’s screen went dark. “Come on then, before I take back my invitation,” he muttered, waving toward the expanse of bed beside him.

“We should see if he can Skype in, he told me you Skype for cases on occasion,” she said as she made herself comfortable. “These sheets are sinful, Sherlock! You really should spend more time in bed if you get to slide against these.”

Sherlock sighed. “You talk incessantly, did you know? I’m not sure how John puts up with it, to be honest.”

Mary’s laugh was light. “He’s a patient man. Puts up with you, after all.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the chuckle that rumbled from his chest. “Touche,” he muttered as he handed over his phone. “Call him if you must. I was told that unless I stopped complaining about his ridiculous conferences that I was not allowed to talk to him.”

Mary clicked her tongue, pulling up the application and ringing John. “Come closer then, so he can see you too,” Mary said, scooting closer to Sherlock, who let out an irritated grumble. The video screen blinked to life and John’s face appeared. He wasn’t looking at the phone, and judging by the rather unflattering angle of the shot the phone was resting on his thighs.

“I told you to stop your whinging and what do you do? A bloody video chat? Why, so I can watch you whinge rather than just read?” The sound of the telly underscored John’s tirade: some nature program narrated by David Attenborough.

“Can’t say I have ever appreciated your nose from this angle, John,” Mary said with a thoughtful frown.

Sherlock hummed and added “An appalling amount of nose hair. You should get that sorted.”

With that John finally looked down, studying the screen for a moment before picking it up to get a better look. “Hold on—now you’ve teamed up to take the piss?”

“I do believe it was your suggestion, love,” Mary pointed out. “We should confiscate Sherlock’s bed by the way, it’s much nicer than ours.”

“Of course it is,” John muttered. The phone shook a bit as he searched for the remote in order to turn down the telly. “Are things really that dire in London?”

Mary panned the camera to the fluff of black hair beside her, which was all that was visible of Sherlock, before returning it to her face. “We need a doctor. STAT.” John’s laugh was warm and infectious, and Mary’s smile grew wider. “I would very much like to kiss you, John Watson,” she said softly.

“Soon enough,” he sighed, sliding his hand over his face. “I do miss both of you,” he added. “You’re still meeting me at the station, aren’t you?”

Mary nodded and then nudged Sherlock. “If nothing better arises,” he drawled, finally rolling over to look at John properly. John shook his head but smiled fondly.

“I see where I rank, you great prat,” he muttered. “As soon as I leave England you lure my wife into your bed.”

“Your idea,” Mary chimed, scooting closer to Sherlock. “And it is a bloody marvellous bed.”

“We’ll see about that,” John muttered, flipping off the telly with a sigh. “Watch her, Sherlock. Make sure she keeps her hands to herself.”

Mary tutted. “I wouldn’t dare. Your boyfriend, remember?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes but did not put up protest, not this time.

John’s face was suddenly weary and pensive, and Mary sighed. “Oh stop it, both of you. We can discuss matters when you’re home. Until then, Sherlock will keep me company and I’ll do the same for him.”

“Right, of course,” John replied. “Thank you, Mary. Truly. I’ll see you tomorrow. You too, Sherlock.”

“Good night John,” Sherlock replied, his voice low.

“Love you,” Mary added, and after John echoed the sentiment he rang off, plunging the room in darkness. Mary rested her head on his shoulder with a sigh. “Is this okay with you?” she asked after a moment. “Touching you?”

Sherlock closed his eyes as he felt her small hand settle over his heart. “It’s all fine,” Sherlock replied, echoing words that held no significance to her.

“Tell me if it bothers you. John gets annoyed with me on occasion,” she said, even as she settled in closer.

“John is easily annoyed,” Sherlock muttered, shifting a bit so that he was facing her slightly. “Mary…” he began, her name coming out like a plea of mercy. She shifted in the dark and Sherlock felt as if she had pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

“I know,” she replied. “I know, Sherlock. I see it every day. How much you care about him. It sustains you. You both…you’re two halves of a whole. You love him so deeply that it’s physically painful to witness.” Sherlock started to interject but he was silenced by her hand brushing over his forehead. “And I also know that he feels the same way for you. He knows how vital you are to his happiness. How you have helped him through the worst of times when you could. I know.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. If he should say anything. He was warm and uncomfortable, but Mary still held him.

 

\---

Sherlock awoke to whispers and the soft, wet clicks of kissing. He kept his eyes closed, his fingers still curled slightly over the soft line of John’s waist. John was always impossibly warm, which was compounded by his being sandwiched between two bodies. John often woke up aroused but would excuse himself to the loo. Sometimes Mary would follow, and Sherlock would spend the next few minutes trying to decide if he should simply pretend he couldn’t hear them or if he should retreat to the living room. More often than not he would steal John’s pillow and burrow under the blankets, trying to ignore the tingles of arousal that the sound of John and Mary’s loud breaths caused.

He could feel the beginnings of arousal in his stomach and his fingertips twitched as he began to feel the bed shift rhythmically. John’s breathing began to quicken and Sherlock felt Mary’s hand brush against his own briefly. His initial instinct was to pull his hand away, but he didn’t. He held very still, his skin burning. “Sherlock,” Mary said softly, her voice rough with sleep still.

“You’ll wake him,” John panted, and Sherlock felt his ribs rumble against his forehead.

Mary laughed, hooking one of her fingers around Sherlock’s index finger briefly. “He’s already awake. Has been for a while now.”

Sherlock sighed but sat up. “I’ll leave you both to it. Sorry.”

“Lay back down,” Mary instructed. “Just like you were.”

Sherlock arched a brow but did as instructed. “What are you planning?” John asked, and Sherlock settled his hand back on John’s hip, trying very hard not to look at his bare, reddened erection, which Mary was still stroking slowly. She stopped long enough to gently take Sherlock’s hand in hers, guiding it down. She wrapped each of Sherlock’s fingers around John individually, carefully laying her smaller hand over his.

Sherlock could feel John trembling between them and he studied the sliver of his face visible. His pale eyelashes splayed across his cheeks, his eyes scrunched closed in an expression very close to pain. John licked his lips before catching his bottom lip between his teeth.

“He would never tell you this Sherlock, but he thinks about this quite often,” Mary said softly. “He’s said your name enough times when he comes that it’s become a bit embarrassing.” She began guiding Sherlock’s hand slowly, sitting up so she could watch the both of them. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were flushed with arousal. “Oh my boys…” she sighed with a fond smile. “What will I ever do with you? Hopeless.”

“Oh hush,” John panted, trying his best to keep still. Sherlock’s heart was pounding in his ears as he buried his face between John’s shoulder blades, throwing one of his legs over John so he could press closer to him. John’s own body quickly adjusted to the change of position, meeting pressure with pressure. Sherlock could not recall a time when he was as aroused as he currently was.

John let out a trembling sigh and Mary smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “That means he is close, Sherlock. He likes it a bit rougher towards the end.”

Sherlock nodded, not waiting on her to speed up the pace of their hands. “I know,” Sherlock replied, surprised by the low, dark rumble of his own voice.

“Fucking hell…” John moaned, eyes still screwed shut. Mary threaded her free hand through his hair, ignoring her own pulsing arousal in favour of John’s. He came with a shout, muscles jumping and twitching.

Most of his come landed on Mary’s thigh and she smiled as she lifted her fingers to her lips. “Have you done that before, Sherlock?” 

“Not to John,” he replied, wiping his own hand on the bunched leg of John’s boxers, whose laugh was warm and bright.

“Cheeky,” Mary said before she leaned over John. “Kiss me, Sherlock. I’ve seen you study my mouth enough to know you’ve thought about it.”

“That I have not done before,” Sherlock said softly as he licked his lips.

Mary shook her head, reaching out to brush her thumb over his lower lip. “A pity, with lips like that,” she hummed, dropping her hand. “I shouldn’t be your first.”

John’s touch was unsure, light on Sherlock’s chest, then his neck, then a brush of fingertips against lips. “I’ve had a recurring dream,” he said softly as his fingers explored the lines of Sherlock’s mouth. “Of the fall. I’ve giving you mouth to mouth , and as long as my lips are against yours you are alive. If I pull away you stop breathing. I know in order to keep you alive I have to keep my mouth pressed to yours.”

Sherlock let out a shaking breath against John’s skin, unsure as to what to say. If there was anything to say.

Mary’s hand came to rest on John’s hip, soothing him. “It’s okay,” she said softly, and John’s eyes slid closed. “You’re okay. We are all okay.”

John nodded, steeling himself before opening his eyes again. There was something hard in them, determined. He licked his lips and Sherlock’s eyes were drawn to them, unable to ignore the invitation.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” John asked as Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Stop being an idiot,” Sherlock muttered before pulling him down, sliding his lips against John’s gently but with purpose. John’s soft moan came to him unexpectedly, and Sherlock answered it with one of his own, wrapping his arms around John’s neck to hold him in place. It wasn’t long before John was on top of him, pressing closer, his entire body rocking with the force of the kiss.

 “John.”

Mary’s voice was low, rough with her own arousal. John responded quickly, pulling back from Sherlock to look at his wife. His pupils were blown wide and his lips were swollen. “Give him what he needs, love,” she added before taking Sherlock’s hand in hers. “He needs you.”

John’s face was flushed as he nodded. “Should…should I…?”

“Oh, love…” Mary sighed, smiling as he slid a hand down John’s back soothingly. “Have you never done this before? I’ll walk you through it, darling. I’ve been told I’m rather good with my mouth.”

“You are,” John chuckled, his tension easing a bit as he looked up into Sherlock’s face. His eyes were dark with lust, hair still mussed from sleep, hand tangled with Mary’s. “You ever made a woman come, Sherlock?”

“One thing at a time,” Mary said with a little shake of her head. “John, you know what you enjoy when I suck you. Why don’t you give that a go? Get a feel of what Sherlock likes as well.”

“If you want to stop, Sherlock, you’ll just have to say,” John said softly, even as his shaking hand came to wrap around the base of Sherlock’s cock. The muscles in Sherlock’s thighs tightened in response and he held his breath, eyes drifting closed out of his control.

“He isn’t going to tell you to stop, my love,” Mary said, inching in closer to them. “Are you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was beyond words, focused as he was on John’s gentle touch. The words rattled about in his head for far longer than they should have had to before they formed into a coherent sentence. “I’m not… I won’t last…”

“That’s okay,” John said softly, his voice sounding on the verge of breaking as he licked his lips. He took a steadying breath and his mouth was on Sherlock, lips soft and hesitant as they parted. It took everything in Sherlock not to thrust upward into the wet heat of John’s mouth but he kept still, holding his breath.

He didn’t realize John was also holding his breath until they were both smacked by the back of Mary’s hand. “Breathe, for god’s sake. You both finally figure out what it is you want and you die of stubborn suffocation. John, through your nose.”

Sherlock’s breath is let out in shaking breaths and his head spun, lightheaded and overwhelmed by sensation. He felt a gust of breath against his pubic hair as John released the air from his lungs as well.

Sherlock had never felt so aroused by so little stimulation.  Every slight shift, soft sound that escaped John’s lips, everything… everything was heightened in a way that he had not experienced since getting clean the last time. He knew, in a second, that he could become addicted to this as easily as he could any drug.

It was over too soon. He was only vaguely aware of Mary beside them, fucking herself to orgasm with her fingers, gaze heavy and glazed as she watched John, whose face was being painted by Sherlock’s  come.

“I’m sorry…” Sherlock managed to say, once his brain came back online. He raised a shaking hand to wipe at John’s cheek, but Mary was already up fetching a flannel from the bathroom. She wiped her thigh clean before carefully cleaning John’s face.

“No need to apologize,” John said with a little smile, his face red and damp from the cloth.

Mary settled back down next to Sherlock, holding out a hand for John. “I think today we should stay in bed, as much as possible,” she suggested as John settled between them. “And I think I’d like to…explore this. Because I can’t imagine life without the both of you. And I don’t want to. So I think it should be us three. Even if… if it’s just John that binds us together. Even if you don’t like fucking women, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. John rolled his head over to face her, studying her face. Every freckle, line and micro expression.  She offered him a slight smile, and he leaned forward to press his forehead against her shoulder. “I don’t deserve this,” John muttered. “Any of this.”

“Oh hush, everyone deserves to be happy,” Mary said as she slid her fingers through his close cropped hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You just need more than one person to make you feel whole, yeah? Nothing wrong with that.”

Sherlock, the silence of the room pressing against his chest, curled up behind John and draped his arm around his waist. Not quite holding him in place, but not allowing him to go. He never wanted him to go.

No one was sure who was the first to fall asleep. No one was sure who was the first to wake up, uncomfortably hot and in time for lunch. Mary was the first to leave the peaceful confines of the bedroom and the spell of silence was broken with the whistle of the tea kettle and the drone of daytime telly.

John shifted, drawing closer to Sherlock without opening his eyes, and Sherlock held him so much closer.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few other ideas in this universe, so it may not be over yet...


End file.
